


It's an Avocado...! Thanks!

by FeatherBlack (jatty)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Avocado are Unethically Sourced, Aziraphale and Hastur are Friends Now, Aziraphale has Unlimited Patience, Bizarre Food Descriptions, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley on the Run, Eggs are The Unborn, Foodie Aziraphale, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Avocado, Hastur Likes Them Because They're Evil, Hastur and the Avocado, Hungry Hungry Hastur, M/M, Mentioned Ligur (Good Omens), Minor Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), They're Still Tasty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-11-01 21:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20517926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jatty/pseuds/FeatherBlack
Summary: Knowing that the forces of Hell are once again after him on Earth, Crowley realizes it's time to go stir up some trouble in hopes of winning his way back into Hell's favor. Unfortunately, Hastur has already been sent to capture him. How is he to get anything done with the Duke of Hell at his heels?He can't. Obviously. So that's where Aziraphale comes in. If anyone can keep a demon distracted, it has to be him.With the only advice to go on being "Don't kill him" and "I hear he loves avocado," Aziraphale embarks on a culinary journey—and might have just made a new friend! Hopefully Crowley won't mind when he gets home.





	1. Avocado Eggs Benedict

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crack fic, pure and simple. But it's been a dust bunny in my brain for a couple of days and I just had to get it out.
> 
> I'm going to write more little chapters as I think of more dishes for them to try.

“Angel, I hate to do this to you on such short notice—you know I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to,” Crowley said, barely pausing for breath as he collapsed into the seat across from Aziraphale at their usual Wednesday brunch spot.

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale asked, wiping his mouth on his napkin before reaching for his glass of water to wash down the bite of egg he’d very nearly choked on when Crowley appeared before him.

“I have to go away for a bit. Very serious, urgent business. Can I count on you for a favor?” Crowley had his hands clasped together in front of him on the table, looking close to pleading while also maintaining the composure of a CEO at a business meeting.

“Well, what is it?” Aziraphale asked, glowering as he sat down his glass. He could have at least arrived on time to brunch or waited until it was over to spring this on him all of a sudden.

“I have to go do some troublemaking—I know, I _know._ It’s not like I have a choice. _Hastur_ is looking for me, and you know what he’ll do if he catches me. I need to go make some noteworthy transgressions to please the Dark Council and hopefully, if we’re really, _really_ lucky, they’ll call him off.”

“Alright, but that hardly needs my assistance. I hope you don’t think I plan to carry out our _prior_ arrangement. I’m trying to stay off of Heaven’s books, if you don’t mind.” Aziraphale took another bite of egg and watched Crowley closely. 

“I need you to distract Hastur. I know he’ll come to your shop looking for me. I know he will. He was already at my flat this morning. He’s a dangerous guy—a very vile, vicious demon. The worst of the worst. But he’s also very stupid and easily distracted. He’s no match for you, is what I mean to say. Will you help me?” Crowley was starting to lose that faux-composure, his forked tongue flicking out repeatedly to wet his lips. 

“I don’t know what you expect me to do! Douse him in holy water? Read him scripture to pass the time while you’re off doing…well, who knows what?” Aziraphale asked, grabbing for his water glass again. A visit from Hastur sounded like a recipe for disaster, and truthfully Aziraphale’s mind was already spinning with ideas on how to thwart a true and wicked demon. 

“Don’t _kill_ him, for Satan’s sake, angel! That’ll surely get me on the bad books for good. Just—I don’t know—distract him!” Crowley paused and sniffed at the air a moment, his posture going rigid. “Aziraphale, friend, I am so sorry. I really have to go.”

“Wait! How am I supposed to distract him!? He could very well kill me if I don’t kill him first!”

“He’s not going to kill you,” Crowley said, surveying the restaurant quickly. “He’s coming… Er, just—just distract him! I hear he loves avocado. Get him to try the avocado egg benedict. It’ll at least buy you a minute.” Crowley leapt onto his feet then, nearly toppling his chair and only passed by behind Aziraphale to give him the briefest of awkward hugs around his shoulders. “Sorry. Must be going—I’ll call you.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called, looking over his shoulder as the demon stumbled out of the restaurant through an emergency door which would have set off the fire alarm if not for Aziraphale’s quick miracle. “That damned fool,” he muttered to himself, turning around in his seat only to be met with the pale face of the demon Hastur sitting across from him where Crowley had just been.

“Damned indeed,” the demon said, his black eyes gleaming with menace. Aziraphale had all of a millisecond to compose himself and, for the most part, believed he’d done rather well. 

“Ah, there you are,” Aziraphale said, as naturally as if he’d been waiting for Hastur since nine-thirty and not Crowley. “Let me call the waiter.”

“I’m not here to exchange pleasantries with you, holy scum,” Hastur rasped at him.

Aziraphale, undaunted, raised his hand and caught the eye of his waiter who promptly came over. He was a good young lad who worked at the restaurant on the weekends to fund his budding career as cellist. (With a few quick miracles, he’d be well on his way—though Aziraphale wasn’t going to let him escape from the restaurant just yet. He was the best waiter he’d had in his two years of frequenting the spot and he wasn’t about to let him go without a fight.)

“Yes, Arthur, my boy, my dear friend here would like to try the avocado eggs benedict, if you don’t mind. And perhaps a nice mimosa.”

“One for you as well, Mr. Fell?” The waiter asked.

“No, I think I’m quite alright for now. Thank you.”

“Did you just say _avocado_ to me?” Hastur growled, his black eyes somehow darkening. 

The waiter stiffened, then began his hasty retreat with the small, polite “I’ll get this right in” as he did. 

“Yes, avocado eggs benedict. It really is _quite_ sinful.” Aziraphale returned his focus to his plate, trying to keep his appetite despite the reek of brimstone and hellfire coming off his new dining companion. 

“Sinful you say? What’s so sinful about it? Does it ooze the blood of the innocent? Is it harvested –”

“They are rather unethically sourced, I’m afraid. Often planted in place of other crops in certain regions and, yes, guilty of gobbling up a majority of the water supply,” Aziraphale said, taking a bite of the potato hash on his plate, checking Hastur’s admittedly confused albeit interested expression.

“Water supply?” He asked.

“Yes. In certain places, the crops get more water than the people. All so that we here can enjoy our trendy, green friend,” Aziraphale said, not without some embellishment. When he glanced up again, Hastur was sneering.

“So you say, people are dying to give _you_ avocados?” 

“Oh yes. Many,” Aziraphale said, hoping that wasn’t as true as he’d implied. He would surely have to look into it later. “I do hope you won’t share than information with anyone, er, Upstairs.”

Hastur cringed at the very idea of consorting with angels as if he himself were not seated across from one.

Moments later, the young waiter returned to set the plate of avocado eggs benedict in front of Hastur who flinched, startled by the sudden appearance. 

He really was a simple thing, Aziraphale thought. What in the world had Crowley been so worried about?

“And your mimosa, sir,” the waiter said, placing the glass of mixed champagne and orange juice before him.

“What is a _mimosa?_ It glows like hellfire.”

The waiter looked at him startled, then glanced at Aziraphale for help.

“Oh, it’s a very foul drink,” Aziraphale said, winking to the server by way of telling him to leave the table. He was more than happy to comply. “It burns one’s mouth and fills it with a sour taste. Humans dare each other to drink them because they are so…vile. There’s a reason I don’t have one with my breakfast.”

At this description, Hastur’s lips curled in a devilish smile as he grasped the tall glass and brought it to his lips. Aziraphale feigned a shudder as Hastur swallowed down the liquid at the pace of a dehydrated man left in the desert. When he finished, he slammed the empty glass on the table and declared “Another!”

Aziraphale’s eyes sought out his waiter and nodded.

“Now what is this…gloop we have here?” Hastur asked, picking up his knife and jabbing at the egg generously slathered in hollandaise and thinly-sliced green onion. It wiggled under his ministrations, and then once he jabbed it again more forcefully, causing the yolk to ooze out. He gasped in delight, thinking he’d caused the food injury—thinking he’d made it bleed. “Now, which part is the avocado?”

“So here on top you have your egg—the, er, unborn chicken—”

“We _eat_ the unborn? These humans are far more wicked than I realized…”

“Yes! Often—they often enjoy killing and eating all sorts of lesser creatures, I’m afraid. So here we have the unborn chicken and you have it’s, er, oozy blood all over the avocado there.”

“The Fruit of Famine, yes…” Hastur was grinning down at his plate with menace. 

“Careful not to eat the peel, though. It’s got a rather unpleasant mouthfeel. And I do suggest a fork as opposed to that…knife.”

Hastur looked peeved for a moment, then set down his knife in favor of the fork. He had just taken his first bite of the Poached Unborn when his second mimosa was set before him. He grinned wickedly around the prongs of his fork and, for the next half hour, had utterly forgotten what it was he’d come to Aziraphale to ask about.


	2. Guac-Guac-a-mole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! 
> 
> First let me say Wow! I love all of you so much. I expected maybe to get one or two readers on this story, but you've all been so supportive and I'm psyched to share in my nonsense with you! Thank you all soooo much!
> 
> This chapter's a bit longer because I wanted to develop Hastur a little more before our real star Avocado shows up! 
> 
> Feel free to drop requests for other friendly avocado dishes for future chapters! I'm thinkinggg sushi? Avocado toast?? The future is infinite!!
> 
> Thank you all so much! Get ready for some Drunk!Hastur!

“I am afraid he went out of town rather unexpectedly. That might be why you didn’t find him at his Mayfair place,” Aziraphale said, walking down the sidewalk toward his shop with Hastur stalking behind him. “He was supposed to meet me for brunch, but I’m afraid he never arrived.”

“He spends an awful lot of time with you,” Hastur grumbled, his mood turning sour as soon as he’d finished swallowing down his avocado eggs benedict. 

“I assure you, he simply enjoys the human custom of conversing over a good meal. The food down here, er, _up_ here in your case, is quite exquisite.”

“I did enjoy eating the unborn… Do you think they have more food like that?”

“More unborn or more unethically sourced? I can assure you there’s a bit more of one than the other.”

“They don’t eat much in terms of the fetus here?”

“Apart from eggs, no they do not,” Aziraphale said, a bit disturbed at the notion. By the sound of it, it would appear Hastur had enjoyed _the unborn_ before. “But there are plenty of unethical treats. Ah—perhaps you’ve heard of almonds? Or any kind of meat, really. You might enjoy veal—it’s a slaughtered baby cow.”

“I do have a taste for slaughtered infants…”

“There’s also pate. It’s the fatty liver of a goose that has been force-fed.”

“Do you suppose you could eat either of those with avocado?” Hastur asked, following Aziraphale into his bookshop. Several of the shelves had been toppled and Aziraphale passed the demon a hateful look. “What? I was looking for Crowley! He has a tendency to become small and slither in between cracks in the floorboards. Thought I’d check the books.”

Aziraphale, still glowering, righted the books and shelves with a small miracle, doubting that that were the case at all. He’d seen Crowley presenting as a serpent several times, and each time he was a massive, wretched thing.

“Well, we’ll have no more of that. When he comes back, I’m certain he’ll come here first. You’re welcome to stay and make yourself comfortable. You can read a book or two if you promise to, er, please wash your hands first.” 

At this mention, Hastur looked down at his grimy palms and fingernails, caked with black soot he’d no doubt been wearing since the Fall. 

“You’re certain he’ll come here?”

“Oh, most definitely! Surely your lot has noticed how often he tends to visit; otherwise you wouldn’t have come here to begin with. Isn’t that right?”

“I guess so,” Hastur noted, scowling around the dim bookshop with his black eyes. “And he didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“I heard he was going out for a temptation. He spares me the details, of course, knowing I’ll thwart him at every turn. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No,” Hastur growled at him, running his hands over the spines of so many books—his filthy, filthy fingers leaving trails of soot everywhere. 

“Cocoa? The chocolate is most definitely from unethical sources. I hear they are regrettable purveyors of child labor and…aren’t sustainable.” While this was true of many brands of chocolate used for cocoa, Aziraphale made certain the brands he purchased were, in fact, Fair Trade and of sustainable sources. Hastur, Duke of Hell, and lover of all things sinful, did not need to know that detail.

“Then I shall have it! It’s a miracle you haven’t yet joined our ranks with how callous you are. Perhaps that’s what Crowley sees in you.”

“I’m afraid it must be,” Aziraphale said before excusing himself to make cocoa. He poured his own into his favorite angel wing mug, and poured Hastur’s into the black cup he usually used to serve Crowley. He had the irrational fear that his friend might mind and become jealous, then shook the thought away. If Crowley were that bothered by it, he needed to take care of his own messes instead of dragging Aziraphale in to help clean up. “Please do wash your hands first, dear boy. I’m afraid it’s in bad form to enjoy cocoa with dirty hands.”

“I’m a demon,” Hastur growled, snatching the cup from Aziraphale’s hand as soon as it was extended. “I don’t wash up for cocoa.”

“Right… Well, I am going to settle in for a bit of reading. If you don’t care to wash your hands for cocoa, you _will_ wash them before touching my books again. Or I will do you the honor myself…” 

Hastur looked a tad intrigued by the offer and took a sip from his piping hot cocoa, leaving a brownish mustache on his upper lip. 

“With holy water,” Aziraphale warned, expression darkening.

That, as a matter of fact, got the demons attention and he set down the cocoa haphazardly on the edge of a shelf and asked where a basin of water might be found. 

“We have _sinks_ now, your poor creature. How long have you been Below that you think humans still wash their hands with a bowl of water?”

“Last time I checked, they washed their hands in the stream,” Hastur growled as he let himself be led back to the kitchenette. Aziraphale supervised to make sure every bit of grime was off his hands and out from beneath his fingernails, using nearly half a bottle of scented hand soap Aziraphale kept mainly for the scent since he seldom dirtied his own skin. By the time he was finished, Hastur’s hands were a gleaming white very near to the color of Aziraphale’s wings. 

“There we are. Now you may help yourself to whatever book you’d like.”

“Don’t have television in this tinderbox?” Hastur asked, taking up his cocoa again from the shelf and following Aziraphale into his back room. It was where Aziraphale and Crowley spent most their time together in the shop and it felt odd to have another demon in the room besides the serpent. 

“I’m afraid not.”

“No radio?”

“There’s a gramophone out front if you’d like to play a record. I have an excellent collection of classical hits.”

“Chopin?” Hastur asked, somewhat tentatively.

“Oh, yes! Shall I put some on for you?”

“Yes. I must insist,” Hastur said, black eyes gleaming like polished diamonds. His expression was horribly sinister, but he appeared quite happy. 

So, on went the album and Aziraphale explained to him how the gramophone worked in case he wanted to switch it up to some Beethoven after the record concluded. Hastur scoffed at Beethoven and settled for playing the Chopin record twice before he appeared in front of the back room doorway to demand more cocoa.

“I do believe it’s getting rather late in the day,” Aziraphale answered. “What do you say to dinner?”

“Another meal? Didn’t we just eat?” Hastur asked.

“Now, now! You’re a demon! Surely you don’t fall short of gluttony! Why, next to Wrath, it must definitely be the next most all-encompassing sin! Humans eat upwards of three times a day!”

_“Three times!?”_ Remarked Hastur. “Well, if a bloody human can eat _three_ meals, I’ll show them! I will have five!”

“That’s the spirit!” Aziraphale proclaimed—and then convinced the demon to at least wash his face before they went if he wouldn’t change into cleaner clothes. “Really, I must say—if you insist on dressing like this when we go out…it’s a bad look.”

“A bad look!? I am the Duke of Hell! Do you want me out here gallivanting like that Earth-loving little worm Crowley? You’d like to see me in some women’s pants that are cut too small and a shirt that shows my chest? _This_ is what a nobleman wears in Hell!” Hastur declared, fluffing his little checker-print scarf.

“Well, up here you look like a charity case! Like a homeless man I’ve taken off the street and offered to feed! You look _pitiful!”_

_“I_ look like a charity case?” Hastur exclaimed, so loudly that the ground shook beneath them and the humans walking about scattered, shouting about an earthquake.

“Yes. Though I guess I shouldn’t complain. If my superiors were to check in, they’d think the same. They’d mistake you for a sad human and probably give me a commendation.”

And that was the magic word to get Hastur to snap his fingers and appear dressed in a fine gray suit with a bold yellow necktie. 

“I’m not getting you any commendations! I am here to add to the suffering of mankind!”

“And to stop Crowley, of course,” Aziraphale added. “This way, my dear boy,” he said as they neared the restaurant. 

“Oh… Oh, right. What’s this? Is that English?”

“No. It’s Spanish. Don’t worry. The cuisine is remarkable,” he said, holding open the door for Hastur who debated a moment whether or not it would be more polite to go through or to refuse and hold the door for the angel instead. A demon could get in a lot of trouble for being polite, but he could also be commended for thwarting an angel. 

He therefore snatched the door handle and gestured for the angel to go into the noisy restaurant. 

“After you,” he sneered.

“Oh. Why thank you,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him. “I hear their hottest sauce is laced with hellfire.”

“Where would they get hellfire?” Hastur grumbled, scowling around the restaurant and feeling all the humans’ eyes on him. He and Aziraphale were the only two people in the place who wore suits. Everyone else had on t-shirts and jeans. He felt like he’d been tricked into being some kind of laughingstock.

“We look like a couple of old businessmen. I bet they think we’re with the mafia,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him playfully as they were shown to a table. The theme of the restaurant seemed to be some sort of colorful, tropical style. Their booths were covered in vibrant red leather, and the table itself was painted yellow and had a mural scene on it beneath a glass top. Hastur liked having something to look over while the annoying waiter finished his spiel on the specials of the day. He was only called out of his thoughts by Aziraphale declaring, “Guacamole and salsa, please! And, if you won’t mind, some of that devilishly spicy salsa that Javier makes special. Tell him it’s for Mr. Fell and his friend. Thank you.”

“What is guacamole?” Hastur dared to ask while picking up the menu thrust before him. “And what is salsa?”

“Next you’ll be asking ‘what’s a Javier,’” Aziraphale joked.

“I know what a hairdryer is,” Hastur muttered. He was scowling at the menu, unable to understand any of what it said. It wasn’t written in English or the language of demons—not even in Enochian, the old language of angels (of which he’d retained a small bit). “Choose,” he said, throwing the menu at the angel who glowered at him darkly. 

“Fine. But for that, I won’t go easy on you.”

When their salsas and guac hit the table, Aziraphale was ready to place their order—getting the swordfish for himself and the Mexican Chili Steak, rare, for Hastur. It was just as he had finished speaking that Hastur—holding the drink menu left by the napkin dispenser on the table—pointed at a cocktail called the Brain Haemorrhage and demanded two of them. Their server chuckled at his enthusiasm and promised they’d be out right away.

“I never knew humans to be this vile,” he said, peering around at all the decorations while Aziraphale helped himself to a chip and some not-so-spicy salsa. Across the way, Hastur noted a plastic lizard—an iguana—that reminded him a chameleon. Which reminded him of Ligur and made him feel…something. “What’s so rare about the steak anyway?” He asked, choosing to focus on the food instead of his fallen comrade. 

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale asked, hiding his mouth behind his napkin as he spoke with it full of food.

“The steak. You asked for it rare. What’s so rare about it? Is it an endangered animal?”

“Oh… Oh, I’m afraid so. The Westminster Oxen… They’re highly endangered, and yet humans keep putting them on the menu. Very tasty—very…tender. Juicy. Still bleeding when it hits the table.”

“You don’t say!” Hastur declared, grinning from ear to ear. “Excellent! And what is this? What are you shoveling into your gaping maw?”

“Salsa!” Aziraphale rebuked. “And _that_ is guacamole. Avocado smashed with onion and peppers and spices. It’s very good.”

“It looks like the puss of a festering, gangrenous wound!” Hastur declared, sticking his finger into the little bowl and scooping some out. 

“And…tastes…just as delectable,” Aziraphale said, struggling to swallow his chip and salsa with that in mind. 

“Oh, I really doubt that. But we shall see.” He popped the finger into his mouth and absolutely cooed like a happy infant. 

“Traditionally, humans eat guacamole on chips,” Aziraphale said, scooting the little basket of tortilla chips closer to the demon. 

“It’s not nearly as good as puss—but it is good,” he said. Then, eyeing the salsa Aziraphale had ordered especially for him, Hastur licked his lips. “Is this…the blood of the Westminster Oxen?”

“Yes. Mixed with tomatoes and hellfire. Try it.”

“And why’s it separate from yours? I hear you’re immune to hellfire now, the same way that little worm won’t shrivel up in holy water,” Hastur said, jabbing a broken tortilla chip at Aziraphale’s not-so-spicy salsa.

“I’m terribly afraid angels can’t drink the blood of any fallen creature.” (He’d have to remember not to order a rare cut of meat for himself in front of Hastur again during this visit.) “Mine is…vegan.”

Hastur cringed the way any sensible person, angel or otherwise, would at the mention of eating puss. 

“I should rather prefer the blood of the oxen,” Hastur said, scooping up a heap of the ultra-spicy salsa. Across the room, the waiter was watching. Only one being had been able to eat the salsa and look unaffected—that person being Crowley. It was quite unfortunate as Aziraphale had been hoping to catch the demon off guard. Now he wondered if it would just be a trait of those Below to not feel the ache of spice.

As soon as the demon had chewed a couple of times, his black eyes widened in horror and he spit the mass out into the bowl of salsa.

“Holy water! You’ve laced it with holy water!”

“Nonsense! It’s hellfire! Don’t tell me a demon can’t handle hellfire!” Aziraphale said, pleased with himself for how well he maintained composure. Across the way, their waiter ducked behind the bar to laugh. “I’m rather surprised you’re allowed to be Duke of Hell when you’re not even Fallen enough to handle a little hellfire in oxen blood.”

“Not _Fallen_ enough!?” Hastur boomed. The lights overhead shook but Aziraphale conjured a quick miracle to make the humans unaware. “I’ll show you!”

He picked up the bowl in both hands and swallowed it down—though Aziraphale did not miss the swarm of maggots collected around the rim of his mouth which indicated that he’d replaced his human tongue for one which couldn’t feel the spice. 

“How’s _that_ for Fallen?” He asked, setting the bowl down. It had a fair amount of maggots still wriggling in the bottom that Aziraphale grimaced at until Hastur, one by one, popped them back into his mouth. 

“Well, I for one am very terrified,” Aziraphale said, scooping up a little guac for himself, careful to avoid where Hastur had previously shoved his finger. “Please don’t do that with my guacamole.”

“Oh, yes, the puss.” Hastur, lips red and enflamed from the spices he’d swallowed, began to stuff his face with more than generous scoops of guacamole and chips. “And _this_ is avocado?”

“Yes, my dear boy. Mashed with all sorts of good things,” Aziraphale reminded him, getting a curious glance from the demon that had him second-guessing his words. “Er, bad things. Have you ever heard the plight of workers in the garlic fields? Oh… Terribly wretched. I hear that’s part of the myth of vampires.”

Seeming pleased with this revelation, Hastur finished off the bowl of guac on his own, finishing just before his two cocktails arrived. One was set in front of Aziraphale who happily pushed it across the table to his demon companion. 

“I prefer simple wine, if you don’t mind,” he said to Hastur.

“Angels don’t know how to have any fun,” the demon declared, taking up one of the cocktails and chugging it faster than Crowley would have even dared.

Again, the waiter was watching them—baffled. If they hadn’t thought Hastur was a Mafioso before, they certainly would after that display! Aziraphale’s fear quickly mounted as Hastur picked up the second cocktail and prepared to drink.

“Perhaps you might wait until you’ve had your meal,” he offered.

“Nonsense! I’ll show you Fallen!” He proclaimed—and downed the second cocktail just as fast.

“Oh… Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, looking around at the other diners who were watching them with some amusement now. “Perhaps a water for my friend here,” Aziraphale said as their waiter returned to drop off their entrees.

Hastur was, at this point, sitting with his head down in his folded arms on the table—clearly under the spell of his Brain Haemorrhage which, under closer observation, Aziraphale learned had three different sorts of alcohol and was also highly recommended as a shot. 

“Our food is here, Hastur.”

“How’m I s’possed t’eat when Ligur’s down there’n th’muck of Hell?”

“I’m sorry? What was that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ligur! He’s down there—lost soul in the hall of lost souls. All b’cause your li’l friend doused ‘im in holy water!”

“Oh… Oh, dear. That’s just awful!” Aziraphale said, not familiar with this tale of horror. “Do… Do you want to talk about it?”

“No!—I’m not soft!” Hastur proclaimed, shooting upright and sniffling. “I just need another drink!” 

“Try the Westminster Oxen,” Aziraphale said, pushing Hastur’s warm plate a little closer to him. “I’ll order you a margarita if you finish it.”

“What’s that?” Hastur asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

“You’ll like it.”

“It’s no’the blood o’the oxen and tomato again, is it? I didn’ care for that. Burned ‘orribly,” Hastur slurred, straightening his plate before himself and grabbing for his favorite utensil—the knife. 

“No—it’s just tequila.”

“It does still bleed!” Hastur interjected, stabbing into the rare meat. 

“Such a tragedy. What kind of fiend enjoys such a thing?” Aziraphale asked, smiling to himself over the rapidly changing mood of his new companion, delicately cutting into his swordfish.

_“Me!”_ Hastur declared, his black eyes somehow seeming crossed and woozy as he grinned at Aziraphale across the table. 

It was, Aziraphale realized as Hastur ate the steak like a ravenous animal, rather nice to dine with someone who appreciated the food as well.

“I can taste the hellfire!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Let me know what you think & Feel free to comment any recommendations or ideas you'd like to see! Guacamole? Avocado Toast? The future is limitless!


End file.
